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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795538">Tether</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfBakedPoet/pseuds/No-D_Whittaker'>No-D_Whittaker (HalfBakedPoet)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Psychic Bond, Smut, they just needed a wank</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:55:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,251</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfBakedPoet/pseuds/No-D_Whittaker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Eventually, the connection remnant would be so fine that it dissolved altogether. Yet half a day’s memories all bunched and tangled, foreign and familiar, had lodged themselves in her conscious mind; a sliver of Yaz’s essence, all the sensations and emotions the Doctor hadn’t noticed properly amid all the background noise and clamoring thoughts in her head. Until that surge, jarring enough to draw attention to itself.</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tether</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/wretcheddyke/gifts">wretcheddyke</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to wretcheddyke for the beta!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Under the console, the Doctor jumped. Quite a lot of Yaz’s neurons had fired at once in a single surge that pinged and sparked in a corner of the Doctor’s mind, too bright and loud to ignore or mistake for one of her own thoughts. Or else the noise was the sonic screwdriver clanging to the floor of the control room when her hand involuntarily released. Reflexively, she moved to pick it up, whacking her head against a pipe in her haste, and she groaned. If she thought harder, if she searched that bit of her short term memory, she’d have recognized the buildup, the plateau, the spike, and the nosedive. In her own defense, however, she’d been up to her elbows in TARDIS tubing: the viscosity repeater for the fuel recycling lines needed a flush. A long enough job for when the fam was <em> supposed </em>to be asleep, anyway. Her stomach swooped as she felt Yaz’s sated consciousness slip under, settling into a vivid dream that made her blush.</p>
<p>Tips of her ears burning, sonic collected, the Doctor severed the connection. How had it even happened? Psychic links to humans usually required a grounding touch, and even her ability to mentally contact other remote Time Lords required heavy focus. Her mind raced backward, to that afternoon, and she recalled a single scare in which Yaz had all but leapt into her arms. The expedition in the Vuntifarian jungle was <em> meant </em>to be a short, relatively sedate trip to capture and relocate an invasive species of wasp, but the Doctor had forgotten that Vuntufar was famous for small creatures that made sudden noises meant to make them sound much larger. And the deafening trumpet of a Thorpelli—something like a cross between a cat and a bat with amplifying throat pouches—made Yaz jump so violently that the Doctor caught her, clasping Yaz’s hands, the only thought in her mind to comfort and soothe.</p>
<p>Ah. So that must have been it.</p>
<p>The TARDIS gurgled a question.</p>
<p>“I dunno, do I? Has she been feeling my mind all day, is that why she—” The Doctor swallowed hard rather than finish the question; nerve endings along the nape of her neck and down her spine searing. Heat crept along her skin: across her shoulders, down to her hips; even her knees and feet felt warmer. She couldn’t keep still as she tried to distract herself by cranking and ratcheting the tubes back into place with more force than necessary. Still, there was a fullness, new and nagging, in the space between her legs, and she wasn’t sure she broke the connection in time for Yaz’s previous state not to affect her. Longer term connections had a way of imprinting mental and emotional states for a time, anyway. Her seeking hips shifted impatiently. But she should finish the job, she thought, packing more tubing into its nook.</p>
<p>A soft hum followed, the TARDIS checking in again.</p>
<p>“‘M fine,” breezed the Doctor, stifling another small squirm. She peered down her front, half expecting to see a change in her trousers, but to her relief there was none. Excellent specs, this new body. To think she could walk around without being spotted... The TARDIS hummed again, a chuckle. “I told you I’m alright!” she huffed, growing in haste to cram the rest of the tubes back. “Just need a… a walk when we’re done here. Almost got it. Viscosity repeater’s never looked cleaner, but there’s just so <em> much </em>here…”</p>
<p>The TARDIS beeped, offended.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, I don’t mean you’re out of shape at all. Just your structure, innit? Normal amount of tubing, lots of it. And that’s good! That’s normal for you! Like intestines. You know a human’s small intestine is around twenty feet long? So long that during surgery, they have to hang them on—anyway.” She grunted—was it with frustration?—as the last of the tubing didn’t fit the same way as when she started. But she made it work, pushing the panel back over the machinery and TARDIS innards, sealing it with a well-timed sonic. On her knees, forehead against the rim of the console, ankles crossed under her, she hadn’t realized how conveniently her left heel had positioned itself, a ghost of demanded friction, but the TARDIS chimed before she could pursue, jolting her to a stark awareness that she wasn’t alone.</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s you done,” said the Doctor, leaping to her feet. She doffed the shop apron and dusted her front. “Might turn in for a bit,” she said casually, pretending to yawn. “Lot of work handling your intestines—I mean, the viscosity repeater.”</p>
<p>She shoved her hands in her trouser pockets and practically fled down the hall, the TARDIS muttering behind her about rush jobs and distractions.</p>
<p>“S’not my fault,” mumbled the Doctor to herself, guilt twanging in her chest, ping-ponging between her hearts as she trotted towards a spare bedroom. Psychic linking wasn’t her strongest suit in any life, unconscious or otherwise, the short of it being that she kept overdoing it, giving or keeping too much. Most psychic links were quick, ephemeral, barely the thickness of a spider’s thread: strong, but easy enough on its own to separate. Left alone for long enough, however, the threads multiplied, wove together and lasted much longer. She could still feel that dangling connection to Yaz in that corner of her mind, like a thinning silken rope, frayed at the edges where she’d cut it, ending at the beginning of that dream. Eventually, the connection remnant would be so fine that it dissolved altogether. Yet half a day’s memories all bunched and tangled, foreign and familiar, had lodged themselves in her conscious mind; a sliver of Yaz’s essence, all the sensations and emotions the Doctor hadn’t noticed properly amid all the background noise and clamoring thoughts in her head. Until that surge, jarring enough to draw attention to itself.</p>
<p>Still, she thought she should do a full diagnostic on Yaz’s mental state at the time of the link. Research purposes, she reasoned over the growing pressure at her center. Check in that she hadn’t accidentally broken something in Yaz’s mind. Her stomach knotted; she was overly aware of how each heartbeat in duplicate sent a rush of wanton blood lower at the thought of Yaz, undone like that… After a fashion, at least. Nothing permanent or harmful. Nothing she couldn’t put right.</p>
<p>She turned a corner sharply, well past the fam’s bedrooms, well past the swimming pool and the library and the fifteenth bathroom. A thrill crescendoed below her navel when at last, she found the room, far away from everything else in the TARDIS, and most importantly, soundproof. The door’s handle was warm, inviting, smooth. Self control had nothing on the way she threw the door open. Or the way she backed against the door in the dark to close it, panting. The Doctor closed her eyes, taking stock of her body by feel: her rosy knees trembled; her hearts galloped; her neck and ears could have been smoking. Would this body spontaneously combust? That would be one to explain to the fam. She patted the sides of her neck to be sure. Slightly above normal skin temperature, nothing charred, a relieved sigh.</p>
<p>The Doctor opened her eyes. She wouldn’t need the lights, but still, she flicked them on; it had been a while since she’d seen this room. It wasn’t anything lavish; just a simple bedroom with a bit of runover floor space, should anyone choose to claim it and move in a bookshelf or desk. The bed was large enough for two; a neatly tucked blue quilt on top, folded down near the head to reveal a lighter underside. The Doctor knew the grey sheets were virtually water smooth; high and fine thread count from that giant silkworm planet, what’s-its-name…</p>
<p>What-its-name-was didn’t matter much in this moment. She’d remember later.</p>
<p>On a hook fastened to the door, she hung her coat. Bracers dripped off her shoulders, hanging loose about her hips. She didn’t bother to untie her boots; she just yanked her feet out of them by stepping on the heels. Socks, too, and barefoot, she found herself seated on the edge of the bed, playing with the crease of the sheet, staring at her toes. Inhaling slowly, she closed her eyes, reaching for Yaz’s imprint in her brain.</p>
<p>What was the boundary on the leftovers of an unintentional psychic link, she wondered, flipping through the flickers of Yaz’s emotions and senses woven into that cord that had bound them. Backwards her mind raced, mental fingertips smoothing along the dangling link, until she found the thinnest fiber at the beginning, first contact: touch, skin—the Doctor’s own hands—the pumping adrenaline and the pounding heartbeat from that jump scare. She trailed forwards: the sound of Ryan yelping at a wasp sting, Graham fretting, herself offering an antihistamine, Yaz laughing. She could replay the entire latter half of the day, she realized, but there was no time for that. She had her own memories, anyway.</p>
<p>Moving forward, the Doctor caught flits of images, mostly herself, she was half-surprised to see: the catch of her tongue between her lips as she successfully encased the wasp nest; the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. And she <em> felt </em> the memory of Yaz’s brain light up like neon for those images as she remembered: psychic link image imprinting faded first, but the most vivid emotional responses stayed. Vainly, the Doctor wasn’t sure she liked her own smile—was her mouth <em> always </em> that wonky? Were her eyes <em> really </em> that shade of hazel? Was there <em> always </em>that crease between her eyebrows?—but Yaz thought it was all brilliant; wave after wave of neurological activity cascading over the Doctor with each memory.</p>
<p>“All brilliant and well and good,” muttered the Doctor, crushing the quilt in her palm in her awareness of neglected parts. She crossed her legs firmly, a placeholder. “But what was the <em> moment </em>—?”</p>
<p>Still, she pushed forwards, through dinner, which put a new perspective on tasting food twice, through Ryan and Graham bidding them a good night—<em> ah. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “Will you be alright up by yourself?” asked Yaz’s voice. What a strange sensation to be Yaz in this moment: only one fluttering heartbeat, lungs that annoyingly couldn’t seal themselves off though she seemed to hold her breath. Only one liver as well. Weird, wonderful things, humans. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Course I will!” she heard herself say as Yaz’s chest squeezed with disappointment. The Doctor knew Yaz wouldn’t pursue her company; she’d seen the end of this scene on the other side of it. But to feel Yaz’s crushing disappointment nearly firsthand—in herself for not pushing harder, in the Doctor for not picking up the subtlety, a note of frustration that budded less-than-gently between her legs—the Doctor blushed, willing herself onward.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She heard herself continue: “TARDIS tune-up never ends. Be good to keep me busy. Then maybe I’ll see how many Rubik’s cubes I can scramble and solve. Got a whole room full of them down the fourteenth hallway…” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Yaz laughed, but it felt hollower than the Doctor remembered hearing it. “If you’re sure, then.” She turned to leave, casting a sidelong glance over her shoulder at the Doctor, fiddling with the console. Heat gushing from the hips down at the sight of her leaning over to reach for a far lever; the nagging echoes of that afternoon loud at the back of her mind. Evidently at this point, the Doctor was all Yaz could think about, spurred by the unconscious connection between them—it was a wonder she hadn’t gone mad. Or perhaps she had, just a little, as she hurried to bed, waving at Ryan on his way back from the bathroom, closing the door quickly behind her. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Yaz seemed to draw out her bedtime routine, agonizingly slow as she changed into pajamas; the drag of her jeans down her legs and the slip of shorts where they’d been. The glimpse of plain black underwear. The Doctor felt a distinct temptation to fast forward a bit as her own fingertips drummed against the mattress, but she found she liked watching the languid way Yaz brushed her hair in long, careful strokes, and she sternly reminded herself it wasn’t often she got a peek into the mind of such an awesome human. Her nerves jumped, though, as Yaz took her time washing her face and brushing her teeth, legs pressed just a bit closer together, belying her impatience as the Doctor squeezed her own thighs into each other. Methodical, that was the word. Yaz was methodical in her approach to self care, a good quality in a person, even if it frustrated the Doctor’s need. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She hesitated when Yaz reached for the light, the frame of recall frozen on Yaz’s slim fingertips against the switch on the wall. The light would extinguish and it would be all sensation without sight from here. Another downside of humans, they had more trouble seeing in the dark. Though she twitched, aching between her legs, she paused to question herself. Was it <em> just </em> curiosity that caused her to pick up the tether and follow it to this end?</p>
<p>“Purely academic,” she justified, shifting her hips again, “Needed to know what extended psychic linking does to the human mind. Check that Yaz is okay.”</p>
<p><em> Haven’t you, though? </em> she thought, and she realized she’d been clutching that mental thread with a steel grip. Sheffield steel, she added with a note of pride, but loosened her grasp. Would she even be able to look at Yaz the same way if she followed through? Her stomach lurched a little: she’d be no better than a peeping Tom, wouldn’t she? Peering into Yaz’s mind at her most vulnerable like that without permission. For the first time, shame licked at her cheeks. It was a breach; she acknowledged that. Perhaps she’d even seen, <em> felt </em> , too much already, even if it was echoes and memories and sensations that weren’t hers. That was it: it wasn’t <em> hers </em>to take, not once patient wellness had been attended. She relinquished her hold on the connection, allowing it to shred and sliver itself into nothingness from her short term memory.</p>
<p>It slipped through her fingers like the fluid sheets in her palm until the thought of Yaz was all that remained, and her still-nagging sense of something started, yet unfinished.</p>
<p>“You weren’t really gonna watch Yaz have a wank, were you, Doctor?” she scolded herself. “Leave some to the imagination, won’t you? More possibilities that way, anyway. Like...” She considered for a moment, a thousand different scenarios presenting themselves. “How would four-dimensional Rubik’s cubes even get involved?” she groaned finally, flopping backward onto the bed, exasperated. “Too many possibilities,” admitted the Doctor, staring at the ceiling.</p>
<p>Focus. That was the tricky bit. Searching Yaz’s memory would have been an excellent focus. The Doctor licked her lips. What must Yaz have been imagining? She remembered the fixation on her own mouth: the stretch of her own smile that made Yaz’s mind glow and buzz with activity. The stuttering spark of heat from the way their hands touched that sent Yaz reeling. They’d been connected nearly all day; that <em> had </em>to count for something. The Doctor tucked her fingertips into the waistband of her trousers, feeling the smooth ridge of her hip bone, the thin skin tingling there. Ticklish hips, that was new. A bit lower, under the band of her pants, she could feel the start of hair, between wiry and soft, at her groin. Brushing across, a whole patch of rough down she knew was dark blonde. Still getting used to that sight, growing accustomed to remembering she was different and new. Newness, the sense of it, at least, would wear off in time.</p>
<p>Her knuckles stuck at the seam of her zipper; that wouldn’t do. Did Yaz imagine unbuttoning her trousers like this? Was she hoping to tug the zipper slowly or frantically, to tease or to speed? Had she thought about the stretch of yellow bracers that got caught under their owner and the way they made it harder to carelessly toss away the trousers? Lights. The Doctor cast her sonic at the lightswitch, and the room descended into darkness.</p>
<p>What was it about the dark that made her feel safer? Like a burrowing animal, enveloped and secure for hibernation. She imagined Yaz reaching over her in the dark, straddling her hips—had Yaz? The Doctor knew the rhythm of Yaz’s heart—she’d lived it, just then—so it wasn’t hard to imagine the counterbalance to her own two, syncopation, and she remembered that the best things often came in threes, like primary colors or cube functions or dimensions. Three hearts between them, the ghost of Yaz pressing into her so she could feel the pounding race, and her breath tickle her neck.</p>
<p>Would she kiss her softly? Would she bite? The Doctor pressed her lips together. Sank her teeth into the softer flesh behind her lower lip. Rocked her hips against nothing. Yaz would shyly tug the hem of her shirt, she was sure about that; she’d felt Yaz’s mind, the adoration of and mild annoyance at the length of coat. Who was she to deny her? Damn the long white sleeves that peeled off her arms too slowly. Her shirt followed her trousers in a ball beside the bed.</p>
<p>How would Yaz apply pressure where it was most needed? Hands or knee between her legs? The Doctor stroked the inside of her left thigh, impossibly soft, much softer than she remembered in any of her other bodies, pressed against herself through her damp underwear. That was <em> closer </em>to what her body wanted, but not quite the same. It was a start, at least. She let the friction build and slid her free hand under her bra, hearing her own exhale spiral into the space where Yaz would have been. Should have been? </p>
<p>Interesting things, nipples, she considered, rolling her left between forefinger and thumb, silently grateful she wouldn’t experience lactation. At least, not that she was planning. Wrapping her head around how soft this body was—that was new as well; not the least bit wiry or stringy like the younger iterations, hers was a body made for kindness and loving, and she quite liked that. She palmed her right breast, increasing pressure between her legs with her other hand, and she gave the softest whimper.</p>
<p>Surely, Yaz would kiss down her sternum, across the elastic softness of her stomach. The Doctor could only touch with tentative fingertips, swirl the little hairs at her navel. All placeholders. It would have to do.</p>
<p>Tugging at her underwear, tickling her hip, Yaz would lean over her and murmur in her ear, <em> you know these will have to come off, don’t you? </em></p>
<p>“Yes,” breathed the Doctor, shimmying out of them, a quick curl and uncurl of her legs, knees tucking up for a moment. She caught a waft of her own scent, and her neck prickled, only for a moment. Yaz would hush her; she’d enjoy that, noticing the tinge of embarrassment spreading along the Doctor’s clavicle. She’d kiss there, too, pausing before she touched.</p>
<p>First touch was a bit disorienting; she missed the point of need entirely, finding a pool at her center. Surely this slickness wasn’t just all for imagining Yaz atop her? But gingerly, she smoothed upward, finding the little swollen pearl: thousands of nerve endings that might as well have flooded her senses with pleasure. She must have yelped, but she didn’t hear. Had she just not known what a clitoris felt like to its owner, or had she forgotten some lifetimes ago?</p>
<p>Had Yaz said her name earlier as she whimpered Yaz’s in this moment? She couldn’t think of another word to say; <em> stars </em> might have been close, but they were microcosms of the universe, not the whole thing; and gods had only brought destruction. Cursing felt wrong as well; she shouldn’t curse her own body, not for this swelling mount of sensation, not ever. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. <em> Getting your coulds, woulds, and shoulds confused, Doctor, you sure you’re alright? </em></p>
<p><em> Yaz </em> was the closest she could get to describing this feeling; <em> universe </em>being perhaps too many syllables. </p>
<p>So she gasped it again and again as she stroked herself: “Yaz, Yaz, yes, please, Yaz.”</p>
<p>And her fingertip was Yaz’s tongue; she could imagine vividly a dome of black hair between her legs—was it the opposite for Yaz, her own head dipped down to taste, blonde stark against black? Yaz lapped around her entrance and she moaned, her eardrums fluttering. No, that wasn’t Yaz, but the way she arched off the bed was <em> for </em> Yaz, the way she shuddered was for Yaz, the rocketing nerve signals from vulva to brain might as well have been Yaz. She edged toward climax, a steady if laborious climb for all the new textures and slippery slopes of herself, and she swore she could hear Yaz whisper <em> not yet, Doctor. </em></p>
<p>She could only obey, easing off to explore other places, tucking away that tiny bit of frustration as a fuse for later. <em> Is this where you want me, Doctor? </em> Yaz would gently place her fingers at her opening, dabbling in the fresh, viscous pool of moisture. Pertinent internal muscles tensed, then went slack and the Doctor nodded, though Yaz wasn’t there, though she couldn’t be sure Yaz would be there at all. Or could. Or should. Fuck should. Her fingers eased in, and she found another pocket of sensation, her brain scrambling to remember medical diagrams to explain <em> why </em> it felt so intensely <em> good </em> . The term <em> clitoral network </em>came to mind before it evaporated with another moan, the heel of her palm finding that sensitive nub with indirect pressure and friction. It was almost too much.</p>
<p>Inhaling sharply, she dragged her fingers back out and upward, resuming her earlier pace. <em> How </em> had she missed Yaz doing this earlier, tucked in that corner of her mind? The connection between them should have at least vibrated—there was a thought, <em> vibration </em> —or somehow alerted her to the mounting pleasure not fifteen doors down from the console. She arched again. Said Yaz’s name again. She could feel the peak nearing as she turned her head to groan into her pillow. <em> Not yet, Doctor. </em>Her legs splayed wider when she picked up the pace, pressed an iota harder against the slick. Muscles she didn’t know she had clenched, and she shuddered; her right calf was starting to cramp but it didn’t matter, even if she flexed her foot to stretch the tension a little longer. Her toes curled, the soles of her feet tingling as she flicked the pad of her finger upward against her clit, causing a fresh shock to rip through her. It was a wonder she was still in one piece; the magnitude of her trembling and the double gallop of her hearts and the sporadic spasming of her center threatened to tear her apart from the inside.</p>
<p>She eased off until she was barely even touching herself, the lightest of circles against the very tip of her straining clit; the whorl of her fingerprint merely displacing fluid, and still her greedy nerve endings reveled in that, too. Yaz would relent at the way she whined. She’d stroke slower, maddeningly slow and soft, before murmuring <em> it’s alright. You can let go now. </em> The Doctor swallowed and nodded, though it didn’t happen immediately. She built speed and pressure again, smoothing and dipping until she could no longer buck her hips and simply lay, rigid and shaking. <em> Let go. Come on. </em></p>
<p>Wavering, the Doctor remembered that first surge: Yaz’s orgasm flashing in her mind, an exit sign, a warning, a signal flare that illuminated her from the inside, sent her spiraling at sea in a storm she didn’t know she could weather. Yaz was her astrolabe or else a lighthouse, guiding her toward—she cut herself off. Poetry could wait. Yaz would kiss her as she came, she was sure. And with a cry, sharp and higher than she’d yet made, the tension snapped, her cells between brain and body for once firing with singular purpose in what might as well have been a solar flare.</p>
<p>She left her fingertip resting in the same spot, which pulsed with her hearts and each resonant ripple. Her breath slowed, though she could barely hear it: it was as though she’d put in earplugs or gone for a dive. Next order of business <em> would </em> be water, or should, anyway; her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. The sweat on her skin cooled, chilling her, and she realized she’d neglected the bedclothes altogether. Flushed anew, she crawled under the sheets, soft and clean, woven silk from Dalar Sud. So that’s what-its-name-was. She smiled hazily, drawing invisible patterns in the material.</p>
<p>Would it be too awkward to thank Yaz in the morning? Best not to call attention to it, she thought, blushing into the pillow. Best she didn’t know. Still, it was satisfying to sink into a doze; she hadn’t slept in a few days, anyway, it was about time for a nap. The weight of the sheets and quilt could have been Yaz’s arms. The opposite pillow she pulled against her chest could have been Yaz. <em> Should have been, </em>she thought before she slipped under.</p>
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